


Painting Skin

by chelonianmobile



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Intimacy, Makeup, Rainbow Drinkers, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29666307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chelonianmobile/pseuds/chelonianmobile
Summary: Rose helps Kanaya with her makeup.
Relationships: Rose Lalonde/Kanaya Maryam
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16
Collections: HSCCS Fall Promptfest 2020





	Painting Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [HSCCSFallPromptfest2020](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/HSCCSFallPromptfest2020) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> As a rainbowdrinker, Kanaya doesn’t appear in any mirrors. That creates problems for applying makeup, so she employs Rose’s help. Such close, intimate moments can only remain chaste for so long.

Short hair like your own can be brushed simply and fall into place, needing nothing more than muscle memory to wield the brush. Anything else, however, gets a little more complicated.

It is fortunate that your clothing shows up in the mirror. You, however, do not, and have not since your demise. You are at least aware that black and green and red go as well with white as they do with grey, so there was no need to alchemise or sew entire new wardrobes (though you did that anyway, and would do that anyway even if you hadn't changed). Makeup is the problem. You can get it approximately correct by feel, but approximate is not enough for you.

"Nor should it be," says Rose.You can brush your own hair, as mentioned before, but she still does it for you, you sitting across from her in your flowing bathrobe. (She has to put her makeup on after dressing, but troll T-shirts button or lace up over one shoulder rather than being pulled over the head, to accommodate horns of all shapes.) She takes as much care with it as you do, stroking the comb gently through the strands (so much coarser than hers; she's soft as a grub, they all are, and something about the feel of her skin and hair reassures you, makes you feel you're where you belong.) Your hair is short enough not to tangle extensively, but she still runs the comb through just the tips first, then a little further up, then further, back to the root, and polishes with a soft-bristled brush until she draws out the light from it, the black shines like jet in your glow. She smoothes it into place, and moves on.

You can still wash and moisturise your own face, and it's soft and clean when she rubs the face primer in. It's troll-made primer, as are most of your makeup products. She may or may not know you've noticed she pointedly avoids looking at the ingredients lists, but she doesn't wear gloves. The skin on her hands is so thin and soft, you sometimes fear something in troll products will burn right through it, but she's tested little spots of each one on her own skin and not had a problem yet. Her fingers are small and slender, and flex faster and further than yours can, though you're by far the most dexterous of your group of trolls, practised with needle and secateurs. Primate heritage beside insectile. It's a little odd, but beautiful to watch, like acrobatics on a smaller scale.She gently applies an even layer, buffing out every pore and flaw. There are few of them. You died so young, before you could be weathered far. You're not so young anymore, but you're still supernaturally smooth. Primers on your skin and lips and lids are just to help the makeup stick. As you wait for it to set, Rose's hands ease down your neck, over your shoulders, in a light massage. Too soon, she has to stop for the next stage. You wouldn't mind if this took all day, but you would like time to show off the results.

Next, foundation, applied with a large, soft brush, over your face, your neck, your upper chest. Very little of it; you let your glow shine through. Just a tint of cavern-pale grey, enough to provide a stocking-sheer haze. A touch of green on a clean brush, blended onto your sky-high cheekbones, and now you can see your face's shape in the mirror, at least, outlined in faint grey. To someone who can see your flesh, you might look almost alive. Not that you'd want to hide your status, though, inconvenient as it can be.

Rose checks your teeth. "Sparkling, as always," she says, running a finger along your lower lip, then further in and pressing the tips of your fangs. Her soft skin dimples, then breaks, and salty iron warmth touches your tongue. If you had a heartbeat anymore, it would quicken. "Black or green today?" You choose black, and she lines your lips neatly with a tiny brush before deftly applying the stick. She puts her other hand in both of yours, and rubs circles on your palm with her thumb. You wish it was her tongue on your mouth.

For your eyes, you have to close them, and isn't that a shame, that you can't watch Rose's handiwork, but of course you can still feel her touch. She puts her other arm around your shoulders, rests her elbow on your arm. Green shadow, black liner. Long, long lashes mascaraed with never a smudge. When you open your eyes, Rose is smiling proudly, lovingly; it's like watching the sun rise.

You didn't even need a mirror to do your claws before, but consistency is key, Rose insists with a smile, and you nod and pose your hands. Your fingers are long, graceful, but thick-skinned and rough, even on the backs where no chainsaw-handle callouses grow - again, not like her. You wondered if you'd chafe her when you first held her hand, but she has never given you cause to believe she minds. Quite the opposite. At every chance, she holds your hand, or touches more. She files your claws to pointed shapes less sharp than they look, shears away the mere atoms of overgrown skin that have had the chance to grow since last time. She's said, when you've painted her nails, that the polish feels cold when it first goes on. It doesn't, to you. Your hands are colder. The smell of the polish stings your sensitive nose, but it can't cover up the hot, fresh, delicious smell of a warm, breathing, bleeding being beside you. Your saliva glands still work. So do other parts. It's almost Pavlovian by now (you've read some of Rose's books). You start rocking your hips in your seat, pressing down on your emerging bulge.

"Rose, I-I don't know how long I can..."

"Shh," she croons, "shh, wait for them to dry."

She makes you wait, your hands held loosely between her fingers and thumbs; you could easily pull away, but you won't. She would be disappointed, her work would be entirely ruined, and that feels like the worst thing you could do just now, just yet. She massages moisturiser into your finger joints, one by one by one, and your palms and thumbs and wrists, until you're almost panting. When she lets them go, they're on her in seconds, pulling her close, faster than you could consciously control.

Your makeup - _her_ makeup, the work she spent so much time on - is smeared immediately, your black lips on her black lips, her soft little pink nails running through your black hair as your scythe-strong red claws run through her sunny-pale gold. She straddles your lap, and you pull up her skirt. You embrace her tighter, your breasts pressed together, another place she's so very, wonderfully soft. She puts her hands on yours, first over your shirt and bra, then under; another thing for which her hands are good.

Soon enough your bulge pushes aside the cloth, just at the sticky-wet spot on the edges of your bathrobe, without your hands' assistance, so urgent is your need. Green marks on her thighs, smooth and wet as paint. Her dextrous hands reach down, twist aside her panties, and help to push-pull you inside her. She's so warm, and she flinches at your sudden coldness; never mind, she'll warm you up. Grey and green powder come off on her white shirt, and as you move together, her makeup runs in little beads of sweat. You have done this enough to have predicted where it was going, and to put a bucket under your chair before you began.

Your nook leaks, and soaks your bathrobe, and drips off the wooden chair. You nudge the bucket into place with your foot, fumbling as you get closer and closer. Rose's mammal-hot breath ruffles your hair, and she whispers to you that you're so beautiful, so perfect, always so perfect, and you feel her tense around you as her orgasm comes. Just a little more wetness on your thighs, not the gush of a troll, but you know she feels as good as you do, you know _you're_ making her feel this way, and that makes you feel more of a rush than mere beauty could even hint at, no matter how immaculate or admired.

Rose groans, oversensitive, but does not pull back yet, and your bulge curls inside her, twisting and turning until you reach your own peak. Wet jade green pours down, out of you and her, over your thighs and the chair's edge, thick as your liquid bases and just as bright as your eyeshadow, staining your Earth's-moon-pale skin.

When you're done, Rose burns against you like a hot water bottle, like a sunbeam, pressing her face into your neck to cool herself down. You don't feel hot anymore. Your blood no longer runs, hot or cold. But you can feel warm inside, and you do. You stroke her back and arms, and tell her that she's beautiful too.

Your makeup is almost entirely ruined by now; your claws are still perfect, since Rose kept you waiting. She takes up the cold cream, and you prepare with a smile to start again.


End file.
